It was late morning in the land of Bootiputia, as Wesnot was tied to the whipping post by Waistnot the slave, who whispered in his ear, “Speak what they want to hear, and they’ll only whip you.”
Wesnot was a man of principal, not some whimpering dog to cower before the whip! He simply stared ahead, over the smoke-curled skyline, content that his prophecy was true in the coming, and that his masters, tormentors and doubters would soon feel the hard barbarian heel upon their soft necks!
Wiseslit, the High priestess with the low breasts, said the benediction on his behalf, with little enough care, he thought.
“Bitch, I should have ravished you when I had the chance!”
Then intoned Whysnot, the High Priest, in the low, dreary chords of the penitention, to which he gave hearty voice, unlike the supposed advocate of the condemned, in her tent-like garments, concealing fruits he long-since should have plucked from that forbidden tree.
Then cracked the snakeskin scourge of Whipknot, the Inquisitor, as the gathered multitude stood about the Pit of Penitence and cheered their hero—not Wesnot the prophet of Barbarian invasion, but of Whipknot, the man most-admired in the realm.
As Whipknot grunted with his expert effort, and Wesnot found himself disconcertingly giving voice to howls of accompanying anguish, he took refuge—from behind the veil of tears that blinded him—that the smoke of the pillaging horde was growing ever near, ever closer to felling this vile civilization, of avenging his good intentions!
The liturgy spewed by the priest and priestess before him, showered as they now were in the pink spray and red chunky bits flying from his back, greeted him once as he reeled back to consciousness.
Eventually, he woke to the creaking of ropes, the ropes that bound his hanging body as he twisted in the hellish firestorm all about. Thatched roofs fell in. House beams crackled to ash. Women screamed in the distance. Gruff voices growled in the half-dark.
There was Waistnot, piled high with goods, perhaps three loads of sacred vestments bound in a vast onion-shaped bundle on his back, as the sacred precinct burned all around him.
To the right, on the holy cross, was mounted the head of Whipknot and at its foot lolled the lifeless head of the high priest, Whysnot.
The heavy tread of barbarian feet, bare on the ashen ground, assaulted his senses as did the heavy pounding of—Oh my, she is enjoying it! thought Wesnot—of a pair of barbarian hips slamming into the loins of the prone priestess, who moaned, “At last, a real man to disrespect me and take what he wants!”
Then came the gravelly voice of one of those ‘real men,’ as his chin was lifted by a heavy, calloused hand and he looked into two grim, ultra-masculine visages.
“Well, Bloodaxe, what do we have here?”
The other man, the one with the bone through his nose, rumbled, “A talkers. Thes softies kills theys talkers, whippings dems likes wenches. Yous knows, Maulhands, this is wrongs, wes shoulds cuts hims downs.”
The one named Maulhand then grunted, “Yes, oh articulate one, cut him down. It is not right for a man to by tied—no man shall live in chains in Barbaria!”
To Wesnot’s great relief he was cut down and had his bonds removed, life slowly seeping back into his hands and feet as the cruel cords were cut. Ironically, Wiseslit was moaning deeply, “Bind, me, tie me, make me your slave!”
His head was then held between two heavy, callused hands, and the brutal countenance of Maulhand spake, “Hey, Talker, can you move your feet, hold a knife?”
“Yes, yes, Chief, I can do that.”
The massive hand of Bloodaxe then slapped him on his shredded back, showering the stoic Maulhand with dark tacky blood and bits of skin, as the towering form next to him opined, “Goods, dens wes gives yas a tens minutes heads starts—heres yous knifes—a dulls one—buts stills a knifes.”
“What? I thought—”
Waistnot then cut him off from under his heavy burden, “Don’t think, run! They’re about to set the hounds loose. If you make it to the pyramid of heads before they drag you down they’ll let you help me haul of this shit—run!”
He ran mindlessly past the orgasm-wracked form of the priestess—who seemed to be making the transition from orthodoxy to heathenry with seamless gusto—more regretful of not having taken her that day in the rectory stairwell then he ever could have imagined, as the sounds of baying, teeth-gnashing hounds and the song of blades being unsheathed lent wings to his feet, as he tore across the fallen hopes of his old masters world, toward the brutal promise of his new lords.
